Praise be to God. May He be glorified and exalted.

The greatest speed known to man today is the speed of light; the angels are able to travel much faster than this. Hardly had an enquirer completed a question to the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him), but Jibreel would bring the answer from Allah.

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One mighty jinn responded, “I can bring it to you before you rise from this council of yours. And I am quite strong and trustworthy for this task.”

But the one who had knowledge of the Scripture said, “I can bring it to you in the blink of an eye.” So when Solomon saw it placed before him, he exclaimed, “This is by the grace of my Lord to test me whether I am grateful or ungrateful. And whoever is grateful, it is only for their own good. But whoever is ungrateful, surely my Lord is Self-Sufficient, Most Generous.”

[al-Naml 27:39-40]

Happy Deepavali, folks :-) (Festival of lights)

 

I first wrote this piece in 2017. Today, I revisit and repost it—with a little help from Artificial Intelligence!

Decisive, determining, or deciding factors often define outcomes, whether in nature or human endeavor. The “Turbo Button,” a feature from early IBM-compatible computers of the 1990s, provides an apt metaphor for a cognitive shift — an intentional acceleration of mental performance. I recall activating it during my earliest experiments in problem-solving, outsmarting a friend in a Tetris high-score duel. That, in essence, was my first “hack.”

Analogously, when observing predators such as cheetahs or lions, we find a refined model of decision-making and strategy:

Selection: They identify a single, viable target from among many.

Isolation: They detach this target from the herd.

Focus: They maintain absolute concentration, excluding distractions.

Evaluation: They make a realistic decision — to hunt or to hold — based on experience and circumstance.

Execution: They commit, accelerating into a decisive final sprint.

This last act — the sprint — is the true determining factor. A fractional misstep can mean starvation. Both predator and prey operate in heightened states of instinctual intelligence — “Turbo Mode,” if you will. One acts, the other counters; survival is the shared algorithm.

My own reflections extend this analogy to creativity and cognition. Writing, problem-solving, and invention all demand a switch into this intensified mental state — a modern form of “Edward de Bono Mode.”

In my writing — often monological, stream-of-consciousness, and self-analytical — I pursue that same focus: the hunt for meaning. Perhaps that is the ultimate hack — learning when to accelerate.

Reprint: A parrot astrologer and his parakeet: Tête-à-tête . . ..

A Parrot Astrologer and His Parakeet: A Dialogue Beneath the Sun

Astrologer (smiling wearily): Tell me, Parrot, what do the stars whisper about my Destiny?

Parrot (feigning a swoon): Sunstroke!

Astrologer (mock alarmed): Am I to faint beneath the sun?

Parrot (fluttering): No, no! How should I know such human frailty? I only meant—let’s seek the shade of an old banyan tree, wise and sprawling, like memory itself.

Astrologer (intrigued): Banyan? Not tamarind? Not neem? Why this fondness?

Parrot: I sense disquiet here. The air is unclean with omens. I am, after all, a creature of branches and breezes. A banyan—ah, it is the sage of trees.

Astrologer (softly): Perhaps you miss the nest you never built. I too am caged by fate. Call it symbiosis if you will—two souls bound by invisible threads. You long for freedom; I long for certainty. Both mirages under the same sun.

Parrot: Do you never tire of your stars?

Astrologer: Never.

Parrot: Then why become an astrologer?

Astrologer: Destiny.

Parrot: A game, then?

Astrologer: Indeed. Let’s play dice.

Parrot: Socratic irony?

Astrologer: Greek to me.

Parrot: Was he your master?

Astrologer: Perhaps. I’ve forgotten his face.

Parrot: Strange. I’ve never met him.

Astrologer: You dream through your days, my bird. I only guess at your mind.

Parrot: Tell me truthfully—am I insolent?

Astrologer: Yes. But your defiance is divine. You wound with words, yet you mirror me.

Parrot: Perhaps I am only your reflection. Perhaps that’s the true astrology.

Sisyphus resides within you. :-) I wrote this in the year: 2017) :-)

Mettle — the strength of spirit, the ability to persevere through adversity — is not gifted but forged.

There is no magic wand to transform boys into men. Only relentless, unyielding grit can do that. This is your life, and your path is yours to shape.

If escapism is your refuge, then take a hot-air balloon ride and drift away — no one will question your timidity. But if even the smallest ember of courage burns within you, summon it. Channel the tireless persistence of a Sherpa conquering the world’s highest peaks.

Over time, that spark will grow. It will evolve into the strength of a true giant.

So, embrace your challenges. Do not recoil from them.

Sisyphus is in you — his struggle, his resolve, his defiance.

Listen closely to that inner voice. Do not silence its echoes.

Reprint: A fictitious brattish Arabian Princess and her Bedouin aide-de-camp (I wrote this in the year: 2017) :-)

“Dhow ready for you, mademoiselle.”

The same familiar voice — deep, rugged, belonging to the hunchbacked Bedouin, my father’s most trusted lieutenant.

A crescent sword swayed from his side as the desert wind swept through, ruffling his robes — the gust seemed to irritate him, though his samurai-like stride betrayed no weakness.

A mare whinnied softly. He patted it in his usual dismissive way — flamboyant in a subdued sort of fashion, debonair even, with that ever-present smirk playing on his lips.

His chaps, once a rich magenta, were now faded to charcoal — a war trophy from days when tribes clashed and heads were counted. No more of that now, he’d once told me with a shrug, voice laced with a nonchalant, curse-like edge. “These spurs? Not even for menace-makers.”

“Duel? Jostle? Do I look that intimidating to you, mademoiselle? And what was your name before you went to—” He never finished.

The unanimous leader of a warrior race, he bore a spine-chilling glint in his eye. And no, he wasn’t truly hunchbacked — it was his way of showing obeisance. His loyalty lay, unwavering, with my father.

“Mills and Boon,” he probably thinks of me — frivolous, romantic. His words are always discreet, hoarse, clipped — like commands on a battlefield.

He never naps. No siestas. Instead, he strides to the souk, hubble-bubble pipe in hand. Occasionally. Otherwise, it’s “Come to Marlboro Country.”

“It’s sweltering,” she says. “Perhaps reschedule your summer break.”

“Yes, yes, he’s such a copycat — fake to the core. I should go now.”

“Hey, Mister Cowboy — where’s my black tea?”

Did he hear me? Perhaps. He always does.

“Wait until my grandfather arrives.”

“Hey, mister stone-deaf — don’t we pay you, slave?”